


Places You'll Go

by Elenothar



Category: NCIS
Genre: 5+1 Things, Books, Character Study, Gen, Team Dynamics, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 13:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: Five books Gibbs read and one he remembers off by heart.Gibbs doesn't strike many people as the type to quietly sit and read, but sometimes he needs ways of getting out of his head that don't involve a boat.





	Places You'll Go

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Dr Seuss quote: “The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.” 
> 
> First NCIS fanfic, and, as usual, I'm working through my feelings through book association...

 

1\. _Pride and Prejudice_ (Jane Austen)

 

 

In the sixth incidence of well-timed bullpen re-entry this week, Gibbs strides towards his desk just in time to hear the tail-end of DiNozzo’s latest treatise on some telly thing or other.

 

“ – kicked ass at the last wet t-shirt content I attended. I’d do a mean Mr Darcy.”

 

Gibbs’ eyebrows creep up this hairline when he registers what the man is talking about. Moving forward on silent feet, he leans in.

 

“More like Mr Bingley, DiNozzo.”

 

DiNozzo makes a startled _eeep_ sound and spins around in his chair, mouth already open for a no doubt impassioned rebuttal. Then he stops mid-motion, and Gibbs can _see_ the way he runs over what just came out of Gibbs’ mouth in his mind a second time and comes to the inevitable conclusion.

 

“ _You_ have seen Pride and Prejudice?”

 

DiNozzo could’ve been claiming that the sky is green and he wouldn’t have sounded more flummoxed. Gibbs’ lips twitch, but he keeps it small enough that it could still be the ‘I’m two seconds away from killing you’ twitch, rather than the ‘barely repressed amusement’ version. Gibbs has been reliably informed that the two are almost indistinguishable on a good day.

 

“Was a book first.”

 

His second blinks and does a credible impression of Gibb’s computer right before he kicks it back to life.

 

“ _You_ have _read_ Pride and Prejudice? Stereotypical mushy chick romance, _that_ Pride and Prejudice?”

 

Gibbs smirks. “Three ex wives.”

 

“Point,” DiNozzo grants him, latching onto this bit of Gibbs-normality with desperate hope. “But you could’ve just read the Sparknotes.”

 

And Gibbs… Gibbs has never been good at resisting the temptation to _push_ , and Tony is just too damn easy sometimes. Keeping his voice casually bland, he says, “Austen’s a good writer. Appreciate authors who know how the world works.”

 

Now DiNozzo looks like a drowning man whose glimpse of shoreline turned out to be a mirage. Gibbs knows some of it is played up, but it’s damned amusing nonetheless.

 

“So what you’re saying, what you’re actually saying here, is that you read the book because _you_ , second-b-is-for-bastard Gibbs, _liked_ it.”

 

Gibbs hums non-committally, turning back to his computer.

 

 

Letting slip this much about his reading habits, it turns out over the next few days, was more of a strategic error than Gibbs had expected because DiNozzo just _w_ _ill_ _not let it go_. One of these days he really should stop being astonished at the man’s ability to make a mountain out of a molehill.

 

 

Halfway through the report on their latest case:

 

“So does that mean you’ve read the other Jane Austen books too?”

 

“ _DiNozzo_.”

 

 

On a lunch run:

 

“Any of your ex wives into harlequin romances cause I could really see - ”

 

“Do you _need_ me to find you more work to do, DiNozzo?”

 

 

In the bullpen, while a listening Kate’s eyebrows keep climbing higher and higher:

 

“Now that I think about it, you really would make a good Mr Darcy, boss, all brooding and emotional constipation - ”

 

 _Thwack_.

 

 

 

By the third day, while Gibbs is pretty certain the whole thing is just an excuse to be distracted from the ominous piles of paperwork waiting on all their desks in the absence of an open case, DiNozzo is about to drive him around the bend and killing one’s subordinate creates even _more_ paperwork, so he swings by a bookshop on his way to work. It’s got to be some kind of law that any second-hand bookshop has the majority of Austen’s back catalogue in stock, usually in a variety of covers, and Gibbs allows himself a small satisfied smile at the copy he finds. It’s old, obviously well-loved, but not tattered. It also boasts an incongruously lurid front cover that DiNozzo no doubt will get a kick out of. Not even the sales girl’s obvious surprise at an older grumpy-looking guy buying a Jane Austen book puts a dint in his good mood.

 

DiNozzo is already there when Gibbs gets in, coffee cup securely in hand in a vain effort to stave off the inevitable paperwork headache.

 

Gibbs weighs the book in his hand, pondering subtlety, then shrugs.

 

“Got you something, DiNozzo.”

 

DiNozzo’s head shoots up, eyes brightening, mouth going a mile a minute before Gibbs can even give him the gift. “Really, boss? What is it? ‘Cause I could really use – ”

 

The book makes a very satisfying _thud_ when it impacts DiNozzo’s chest. The man’s yelp isn’t bad either.

Gibbs rounds his own desk to Tony’s mutter of “A book? Really you shouldn’t have, boss.” He can tell the exact moment when Tony finds the post-it note stuck to the cover, a strangled noise erupting from behind his senior field agent’s computer.

 

 

_Read it. You might learn something._

 

 

Smirking to himself, Gibbs goes back to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

 

 

 

2\. _Guidebook for Marines_ (18th Revised Edition)

 

When Gibbs breezes into the bullpen to find DiNozzo looking smugly expectant, Kate curious despite herself and McGee defiant (or as defiant as he ever gets – Gibbs is still waiting for him to grow a proper backbone), he knows there’s going to be trouble.

 

Gibbs intends to just stay out of whatever they’re collectively brewing until headslaps are needed to get everyone back on track, as per his usual operating procedure. Then he catches a glimpse of a familiar-looking book on McGee’s desk and almost halts. Instead, he rounds the corner of his desk, puts his coffee down, sits, and _then_ says, “What are you hoping to get out of that, McGee?”

 

McGee takes on his patented deer in the headlights look, but answers gamely enough. “It’s full of useful information, boss. I figured since we deal with marines almost every day, I should, well, try to understand them a little better.”

 

Gibbs studies his face, intrigued now. It sounds plausible enough and definitely like something McGee would do, would _think_. But he senses there’s something else to it, buried underneath the explanation, and if there’s anything Gibbs is good at it’s poking at things that don’t quite fit until they do.

 

“And you think a book is going to help you with that?”

 

“Yes?” Now McGee looks confused, as if it never occurred to him to think otherwise. It probably didn’t. Something sounding very much like a snicker turned into a cough at the last second erupts from DiNozzo’s desk. Kate is watching the exchange silently.

 

“Alright, lay it out for me.” Gibbs leans back in his chair, presenting casual angles that have DiNozzo, who’s always had good instincts, shuffle uncomfortably. “What’s the book telling you?”

 

McGee still looks bewildered, but finally there’s an edge of suspicion sneaking into his expression, realisation that this talk isn’t really going the way he’d thought it would. The probie really hasn’t learned how to anticipate Gibbs’ reactions yet. Not that Kate has either, and she’s been on his team for over a year now.

 

“It gives an overview of marine training, boss. Weaponry, tactics, physical training...” McGee’s voice trails off as Gibbs’ expression remains stony. He already knows what’s in the book – ex wife number three had gifted it to him their only Christmas together, probably thinking he’d appreciate the nostalgia it inevitably evoked. He’d paged through it a couple of times, unimpressed. The book is accurate enough, as far as training details go, but it tells you jack shit about what it truly means to be a marine. Besides, no written word can replace face to face instruction when it comes to any of the things covered in marine training,

 

“And what does all that actually tell you about marines, McGee?”

 

This time McGee answers promptly. “Expected skillsets, boss. Helpful to know when investigating marine-related crimes.”

 

Gibbs tilts his head in agreement of that point. He taps at his keyboard for a couple of moments, bringing up the meeting reminder Morrow’s assistant had sent to all the team leads. When he looks up again, all three of his agents are still gazing at him, clearly waiting for more. Smart bunch.

 

“Don’t confuse background context with understanding,” Gibbs says, voice hardening. “Knowing the theory of how a marine is taught to use a Beretta M9 doesn’t help you _understand_ marines, or why one would or wouldn’t shoot someone with that gun. None of the theory in that book will do that for you, McGee.”

 

He’s almost sorry for the way McGee deflates, but this is too important a lesson for the man to learn to pussyfoot around it, Even if Gibbs were inclined to do any pussyfooting around anything, which he isn’t.

 

The computer dings at him, a sound that never fails to set Gibbs’ teeth on edge, reminding of the meeting in five minutes.

 

“Back to work, people,” Gibbs barks and heads towards the stairs.

 

When he comes back, annoyed by the useless statistics that took up half of the meeting, three heads are bent over keyboards and paper. No one brings up the book again, though it’s still visible on McGee’s desk.

 

But two days later it’s still there, a green bookmark steadily travelling towards the back. Gibbs would let it lie, since in the end it _is_ useful information, if not the kind of information McGee is looking for, and he doesn’t actually care what his team occupies their time with when they’re not on a case and have turned all the paperwork in, but there’s been something pinched about McGee’s expression for the last few days that Gibbs doesn’t like. He has an idea what this is really about and after some deliberation had decided to head it off at the pass.

 

He waits until DiNozzo and Kate have left for the day, on time for once in the absence of urgent work (not even Gibbs is that much of a bastard), then parks himself on the edge of McGee’s desk. The other man looks up, expression caught somewhere between nervous and stubborn.

 

“You’re not a marine, McGee,” Gibbs tells him quietly, eyes narrowing as he takes in the reflexive flinch McGee can’t quite hide. “And no one’s asking you to be one. Last I checked DiNozzo and Kate aren’t marines either.”

 

McGee opens his mouth, swallows, thinks better of it. Gibbs raises a brow.

 

“As for understanding _me_ , you watch and learn. You won’t find answers in a book.”

 

Holding McGee’s gaze for another five seconds, Gibbs turns to go. Pressing the down button in the elevator, he calls, “Let me know how you’re getting on some time. DiNozzo's still at it four years later.”

 

The doors close on his glimpse of McGee’s thoughtful face. The next day, the sound of reminders popping up on his computer has been silenced.

 

 

 

3\. _Les Miserables_ (Victor Hugo)

 

 

The latest upset in Gibbs’ carefully structured life, unsurprisingly, comes courtesy of Abby, who generally seems to be responsible for 90% of them. Abby, who had come up to the bullpen five minutes ago and started gibbering about taking all of them to the theatre because one of her old uni friends is apparently “doing the lighting for this show and it’s going to be _amazing_ ”.

 

As used to Abby’s exuberance as Ducky’s long tales and DiNozzo’s verbal diarrhoea – and without a hot case shortening his patience – Gibbs lets her run out of steam naturally, before raising a brow.

 

“And this show would be what exactly, Abbs?”

 

“Didn’t I say? It’s _Les Miserables_. It’s usually just on Broadway – ”

 

A shudder travels down his spine and it takes effort to keep half an ear on Abby’s continued babble, while the rest of his attention spirals down memory lane.

 

Gibbs had privately suspected that Captain Cameron had brought the book along less because of a desire to read it and more because its thickness would last him their entire tour. In the end it had been Gibbs who’d spent many hours of waiting for action in his bunk, book balanced on his knees as he puzzled his way through the Parisian sewers.

 

(The sewers, he couldn’t have cared less about, but those young courageous men fighting for a better tomorrow? Those, he found himself reluctant to desert.)

 

It whiled away the hours that he wasn’t running drills, playing poker and shooting the breeze with his fellow marines, or, occasionally, putting bullets in enemy combatants’ brains. Then he got blown up, his life crashed down around his ears, and the rest of the book lay abandoned.

 

He had been back on US soil for three months when Ryan found him, handing him the damned book with a quiet word about how Cameron would’ve wanted him to have it. He’d been the only one to enjoy it anyway. Still quietly raging and at loose ends, Gibbs began to read again. He made it all the way to Gavroche’s death before he had to put it aside, the taste of bile strong in his throat and heavy on his heart.

 

He decided the ending of _Les Miserables_ had never been much of a mystery, and let it lie.

 

“ - and I helped make sure the rig would be stable, Gibbs are you listening to me?”

 

He finds a smile for her. “Always, Abbs.”

 

“Then are you coming? It’s on Saturday and I know you’re off rotation. Say you’ll come.”

 

His knee-jerk reaction is to say no. But. It’s _Abby_ asking, with those big pleading eyes he’s never going to admit out loud he finds it hard to say no to. And he’d already missed the last engagement Abby had planned, due to a case cropping up at the last minute. He owes her.

 

“What about DiNozzo and McGee? They’d probably enjoy that kind of thing. Ducky likes going to the opera well enough. And Ziva just likes going out with you.”

 

“Oh, they’re coming too, of course. But it won’t be the same without you, Gibbs. It’ll be like a team evening!”

 

Gibbs resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, mostly because it would set a dangerous precedent. He sighs. “When?”

 

The resultant squeal is loud enough to bring the Director to the railing.

 

 

 

On the day, Gibbs remembers enough of the plot that he can slip out a couple of minutes before Gavroche’s on stage death. No one calls him on his sudden urge to visit the bathroom, despite the utter ridiculousness of Gibbs, who drinks more coffee than the rest of the team combined any given day and doesn’t have to take a piss more than twice, having to go right in the middle of a play.

 

He slips back in just as the barricade collapses noisily, ignoring the questioning glance from Tony. He _could_ have sat through it, weathered the inevitable emotions and not blinked, but Ducky has taken to making pointed comments about self-care again recently, and lately he has discovered that even Leroy Jethro Gibbs can occasionally bend enough to avoid something that he knows will cause him pain – off the job at least.

 

Brave new world.

 

 

 

4\. _The Lord of the Rings_ (J.R.R. Tolkien)

 

 

The prime suspect for their latest case is – in what Abby excitedly calls a ‘classic MCRT special’ – a one-eyed bruiser with ties to a local gang, who may have nursed a grudge against their deceased sailor. Personally, Gibbs isn’t convinced yet, mostly because it’s _too_ obvious, but they don’t have any other leads so the bruiser it is. And, as Ducky reminds him in that inexorable way of his, obvious doesn’t necessarily mean wrong – not every murderer is savvy enough to convincingly cover it up afterwards.

 

Ziva and McGee are in the middle of an increasingly heated debate about how the perp could’ve entered Lieutenant Sorensen’s apartment complex unseen. Tony is looking between them with something akin to horrified amusement, right until the point when McGee suggests that he might’ve hacked into the electronic door system and Tony throws up his hands.

 

“Woah, hold your horses, Probie! This isn’t exactly the Sauron of evil plans, so unless you’ve discovered an accomplice...”

 

Unfortunately for Gibbs, Tony turns to him halfway through the first sentence and catches Gibbs’ face not quite at his customary pissed-off blandness whenever people make references to popular culture that pass him by. Tony’s eyebrow hitches up. Usually the man’s endless quest of trying to understand Gibbs and all his ticks and quirks through more observation than most people would deem healthy directed at one’s boss amuses him, but of late it’s gotten increasingly hard to hold onto some aspects of the ‘unknowable leader’ persona he relies on to keep his team on their toes at work. He should probably be more bothered by that than he is, in truth, but in this case he allows himself an internal wince. The last time he’d let anything about his reading habits slip, Tony had been like the proverbial dog with a bone. Or, Gibbs supposes, dog with a small barrel of brandy.

 

He braces himself for the comment, the exaggerated shock at Gibbs possibly having space in his brain devoted to _The Lord of the Rings_ of all things. But Tony doesn’t say anything; instead his eyebrow resumes its normal place and he turns to McGee and Ziva.

 

“Or _maybe_ he climbed in through the hallway window, which _wasn’t_ alarmed, snuck up the stairs, which _weren’t_ under video surveillance, and kicked Sorenson’s door in. That apartment building is hardly Fort Knox.”

 

McGee and Ziva stare at Tony, and sometimes Gibbs wonders how they can still be so surprised by Tony’s investigative skills – where pure old policing work is concerned, Tony far outstrips either of them, and not subtly so either. Even if Gibbs’ own money would be on the maintenance entrance; not because the hallway window isn’t a viable option, but simply because he has arrested enough people just like one-eyed bruiser to know that they’re quite often _lazy_. If there’s an easier way, they’ll take it, even if it increases the risk.

 

Gibbs deems this the right moment and looks up from his scrutiny of Ducky’s autopsy report.

 

“What are you all still standing around here for? Check the building.”

 

The way they scramble to obey will never _quite_ get old.

 

 

 

In the end, Gibbs is right about the maintenance entrance, Tony is right about everything else, and the bruiser folds in interrogation like a soggy house of cards. Unimpressively, and with a squish.

 

A week later, Tony comes by for steak and beer, wanders over to Gibbs’ bookshelves and runs his hand over cracked spines until his fingers land on Gibbs’ worn copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ , half hidden behind an oversized Dickens compendium.

 

Gibbs leaves him to it, fights past his instinctive bristling when Tony turns the first couple of pages, no doubt finding the words scrawled there in black ink and familiar loopy writing; the only instance of it that Gibbs has managed to save for all these years.

 

“Childhood favourite?”

 

Tony’s tone is casual, the question anything but.

 

Gibbs doesn’t look up from where he’s stoking the fire. “Hmm.”

 

The silence is only punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the faint rustling of pages as Tony thumbs through the book. Finally he says, “It’s a nice dedication.”

 

Only Tony can manage to sound quite so sincere while clearly digging for more information.

 

“It is,” Gibbs agrees. He doesn’t need to read it to remember it, some of the last words his mother had bequeathed to him. People tend to automatically assume that Gibbs inherited most of his traits – silence, stubbornness, unshakeability – from his father, but the truth is one that only those who knew him in Stillwater before the first tragedy of his life realise; if there’s anyone in the Gibbs family Leroy Jethro Gibbs takes after it was his mother. It certainly hadn’t been her way to say more than was necessary, always choosing her words carefully, and so he had always known, instinctively, in his gut, what the sentence she had scrawled onto one of the book’s cover pages had meant.

 

 

_Always remember the Hobbits, LJ._

 

 

Everyone can make a difference, no matter how small. Everyone can protect what they love. Courage in desperate places, and always, always loyalty. And sacrifice too, for a worthy cause.

 

Perhaps Tony senses the turn in his mood, for he lets it lie, even as his hand is still running over the worn spine of the book. “I always thought the ending was sad. You know, how Frodo never gets to go back home.”

 

Gibbs feels the corner of his mouth turning up despite himself. Tony isn’t usually so subtle about it, but it’s still sometimes easy to forget just how well the other man knows him.

 

“Not sad,” he says. “Real.”

 

 

 

5\. _One of those interchangeable spy thrillers_ (Lee Child (?))

 

 

Concussions, Gibbs thinks blurrily, are a lot harder to deal with than DiNozzo makes it look. Must be all the practice the man gets. Gibbs’ head feels like someone has been bouncing it on concrete and then stabbed him through the eyes for good measure, which, coupled with the roiling nausea in his gut, is enough to keep him lying still on the rough floor he’d woken up on. Even if he could move without throwing up, right now he’s so far on the back foot he can’t even see the front one. Trying anything would just get him hurt worse. Fighting against the pounding behind his eyes, he tries to cast his mind back to what had happened, growling quietly when a patchwork of jumbled memory greets his attempt. Anything creative feels beyond him, so he decides to stick with what he knows – treat his current situation like he would any case.

 

First, construct a timeline. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. _If_ he can manage to concentrate for longer than two seconds at a time. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice that sounds aggravatingly like Ducky is warning about skull fractures and the like, but Gibbs decides to ignore that. Worrying hurts, and right now it’s not like he can do anything about it either way.

 

Gibbs spends a little while just breathing, before he pulls himself together for a second attempt at remembering.

 

He’d just got back home from that damned security conference the Director had insisted he attend. Those things are trying at the best of times, given that it usually involves him attempting to beat some common sense into young hotshots who think his age disqualifies him from contributing anything useful. Admittedly, there are usually some who bother to listen, and that’s just about enough to make him agree to go with only extensive grumbling rather than actual threats of resignation, but after two days of it (and in California _of all places_ ), all he had wanted was a couple of quiet days to himself, working on the boat. Except the MCRT had been called in all of half an hour after he landed, to deal with some case involving… drug running? Or kidnapping? Gibbs’ stomach lurches threateningly as he tries to push past the dizziness and pain obscuring the details of the last few hours.

 

He thinks he can remember taking McGee with him to interview witnesses. They hadn’t expected an attack, but he’d noticed something off, hadn’t he? Had he warned McGee? Gibbs remembers shouting, but there’s a worrying blank right there in his memories, that no amount of beating back nausea seems to enlighten.

 

Pain spikes behind his eyes and he subsides for a moment.

 

Damned concussions. In the books the hero always gets aesthetic concussions, bit of blood trickling down his face, two stumbling steps and then he’s right as rain again. Hadn’t he read something along those lines recently? Some terrible spy thriller he’d picked up at the airport on a whim to occupy himself on the flight. His head throbbed. Jack Reacher, that was it! Couldn’t remember the title now but it’s not like it matters; they’re pretty much interchangeable anyway, aesthetic concussions and all. Not this horrible pain and dizziness and constant threat of puking. Come to that, Jack Reacher would probably have busted out of here by now, that’s always how it goes. But then, the guy doesn’t have a team like Gibbs does. Those spy thriller antihero types never do. The team _wi_ _ll_ find him and his brain might even still be in one piece when they do.

 

Through the persistent pounding in his head, he can just about make out footsteps nearing. Snatches of conversation float past his concussed ears.

 

“Is he dead?”

 

“No he isn’t dead, you idiot. He’s breathing.”

 

“That’s a lot of blood on the floor, though.”

 

“Why did you hit him so hard? You weren’t supposed to hit him that hard.”

 

“He was going for his gun! What was I supposed to do?”

 

“We can’t exactly question him when he’s like… that, though, can we?”

 

He would’ve rolled his eyes behind his closed lids if his head hadn’t already been hurting so much. Weeping Christ, he’s gotten himself kidnapped by _amateurs_. Mike is never going to let him live this down. Fuzzy realisation invades that thought – no, Mike isn’t there anymore, he’s in Mexico. Gibbs knew that.

 

The amateur kidnappers are still talking. At least if they cop a clue and realise he’s actually awake, he can barf on their shoes as a form of passive resistance. Might even be able to kick one of them and take out a kneecap before the concussion lays him flat again. On the other hand just the thought of moving at all makes the stabbing pain reach a fever pitch.

 

Things go a bit hazy for a while, time slipping away with bits of Gibbs’ sanity in tow. Muffled noises sound from above, and if Gibbs were anything other than half passed out he’d be _much_ more pissed at himself for not even fully registering that it’s the sound of gunshots.

 

Then there’s a voice he knows, and gentle hands on his face.

 

“Hey, boss, _Gibbs_ , don’t go to sleep, stay with us, ok? Concussions are _my_ thing, don’t steal my thing. How about you open those baby blues of yours? I could do with a patented Gibbs Glare right about now – ”

 

– and on and on. Tony in full on rambling mood rivals Abby and McGee on a technobabble spree. His ears are going to start bleeding any second now, if they aren’t already. There’s definitely blood around somewhere, he can feel it, wet in his hair and under his skin.

 

Nothing for it.

 

With the quietest of moans, Gibbs forces his eyes open to a slit, unsurprised to find Tony’s face inches from his own. He would lay good money on Jack Reacher never having been in a position as undignified. He’s distantly aware that there’re still hands on him, one in his hair and one steady on his shoulder.

 

He can just about make out Tony’s lips turning up into a relieved smile.

 

“There you are. Looks like you don’t even do concussions by half, boss. That one’s a doozy.”

 

Tony is trying to keep his tone light, but even in his current state Gibbs can hear the worry underneath. He squints, trying to make Tony’s face less blurry – not an endeavour crowned with success.

 

A couple of deep breaths later, he manages, “You don’t...say, DiNozzo.”

 

And oh, speaking was a _bad_ idea. His stomach roils, and even as he reflexively presses his eyes shut again, the pain in his head spikes and he’s gone, doesn’t even hear Tony’s worried shout.

 

 

 

Gibbs wakes in the hospital, to the utter certainty that he missed quite a dramatic scene after he passed out. His head feels… surprisingly okay – a little tender and a lot fuzzy still, but miles better than the last time he’d been aware enough to notice. Gibbs isn’t one to advocate quitting the fight, but maybe passing out hadn’t been such a bad idea this time.

 

A loud snore rends the air.

 

Gibbs turns his head to find Tony sprawled awkwardly in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, long limbs bent at angles that make Gibbs’s knees creak in sympathy.

 

Deciding to put Tony out of his misery, Gibbs barks, “DiNozzo!”

 

Tony shoots upright, awake in a heartbeat, the reflexive sour look at Gibbs’ smirk quickly subsumed by relief.

 

“Boss! About time, we were starting to think we needed to cast around for a Prince Charming.”

 

Gibbs stares at him, keeping the silence going for just a moment too long to be comfortable. “What, you don’t think you’re qualified?”

 

Tony’s eyes go wide. “Yes, no, wait, what?” He splutters, hands moving restlessly in the air, until Gibbs takes pity on him.

 

“Everyone else all right? Don’t remember much of what happened, even before some bastard bashed me on the head.”

 

Tony seizes on the change in topic with alacrity. “The team’s all fine. Worried about you, but fine. You just missed McGee and Ziva, they’re finishing their reports. Ducky got called back to NCIS for an autopsy, and I sent Abby home when she threatened to vibrate through the ceiling.”

 

Gibbs grunts his appreciation. However much he hates being laid up when there’re things to be done (and when they’re not), at least it sounds like things are well in hand. But Tony’s still fidgeting.

 

“I called your father yesterday,” Tony says, strangely careful. “He’s fine. Says he’ll make it down here in a couple of weeks to see you.”

 

Gibbs frowns. “Why wouldn’t he be fine?”

 

“Dunno.” Tony shrugs, still deliberately casual in a way that sets Gibbs’ teeth on edge. “You kept mumbling his name when I was trying to keep you awake in the cellar.”

 

Gibbs’ frown deepens. Mumbling his father’s name? That doesn’t sound right. He doesn’t remember thinking of his father at all – though maybe he should’ve done, but years of avoidance are hard to unlearn. If anything, he’d still been thinking about that bloody book… oh. Jackson. _Jack_ Reacher. Right.

 

It’s a damn good thing Gibbs hasn’t blushed at _anything_ in years. And that Tony can’t actually read minds, because otherwise Gibbs would have to claim concussion as an excuse, which would bar him from ribbing Tony about his concussed ramblings in future.

 

“Good,” he grunts, annoyed enough at himself that his customary snarl is already back in place. “What are you still doing here, DiNozzo? You look like hell.”

 

That makes Tony grin, because the man has always lived to confound expectations. “You’re not exactly looking like a bed of roses either, boss. I’m just making sure you’re not gonna run off to Mexico as soon as our backs are turned. You gotta admit, you don’t have a great track record with head injuries.”

 

It’s often a bit of a toss-up whether he’s going to get ‘straight shooter’ DiNozzo or ‘talks around the point for hours’ DiNozzo, and Gibbs can’t help but be pleased that it’s the former right now. Despite himself, one corner of his mouth turns up, and his voice is probably gentler than he intends when he says, “Not gonna run off to Mexico, Tony.”

 

Tony nods, a little jerkily, and doesn’t protest when Gibbs proceeds to throw him out of his hospital room. Gibbs needs a bit of quiet before he can enact his escape.

 

 

 

The first morning after sleeping in his own bed again, his gaze falls on the paperback peeking out of his suitcase and his head throbs in remembrance. He drops the book off at the nearest charity bookshop that evening, if only to stave off more sympathetic headaches.

 

He hadn’t finished it, but the plot had been predictable and writing mediocre, so he doesn’t really mind. Besides, he prefers stories about teams to lone wolves.

 

 

 

 

+1 _The Lorax_ (Dr Seuss)

 

 

Tony is about to round the corner into their slice of home away from home (read: the bullpen) when he hears Gibbs’ voice. Usually that wouldn’t stop him in his tracks – a functional mute he may be, but it’s not like Gibbs _never_ speaks. No, what perks up his ears and slows his steps just out of sight is that Gibbs sounds calm, almost happy. It’s been a bitch of a couple of days, frantically searching for a kidnapped child, and then the kidnapped child’s equally kidnapped mother once they had found the little girl, who had just been a diversion. Already snappy and on edge as Gibbs always is when their cases involve children, Gibbs’ mien had darkened further when they’d worked that out, his mouth settling into a grim line that had stayed put until they’d finally caught the dirt bags. If Gibbs’ world view doesn’t leave room for people who willingly endanger children, it _really_ doesn’t allow for anyone to do so for no greater reason than to create a diversion to cover other misdeeds. Sometimes Tony thinks Gibbs takes every bad parent, child abuser and criminal who doesn’t care about making children collateral damage as a personal failure.

 

Which is why Tony had expected him to still be all grim and snarly, at least until he’d had some quality one-on-one time with his basement, boat and bourbon. And yet here Gibbs is, sounding all pleasantly calm in the bullpen. And he’s _still_ talking, hadn’t stopped at all during Tony’s mental wool-gathering.

 

Tony carefully peeks around the divider, actually tuning in to the words rather than just the tone of voice.

 

“Way back in the days when the grass was still green, and the pond was still wet, and the clouds were still clean, and the song of the Swomee-Swans rang out in space… one morning, I came to this glorious place. And I first saw the trees!”

 

Tony’s mouth falls open, torn somewhere between incredulity, amazement and a bone-deep sadness on Gibbs’ behalf, because _Gibbs is reading Dr. Seuss_. Gibbs is reading Dr. Seuss to a mildly traumatised five-year-old. The tug behind Tony’s breastbone gets worse when his eyes fully take in the scene before him. Gibbs is sitting at his desk, little Lisa on his lap, but there’s no book in evidence, nor is Gibbs looking at his computer screen. He’s reciting _The Lorax_ from _memory_.

 

Ducky now and then likes to expound his theory that every person has hidden depths they hide from the world, and while Tony had never doubted the truth of that in regards to Gibbs, he _had_ thought that after so many years he had uncovered most of his boss’ depths. Tony is even self aware enough to know that he’s maybe been a little obsessive in this regard. And yet… this one he wouldn’t have called, even though, thinking about it, he perhaps should have. Gibbs was a great father, by all accounts, and is still incongruously good with children considering his usual gruff persona. Gibbs reading to his little daughter often enough and enjoying it enough to memorise whole texts isn’t a large step from there, Maybe it’s because Gibbs so rarely talks about his first family, pain shrouding even the good memories. Or perhaps even Tony, who makes it a point to find the man underneath the bastard exterior, sometimes forgets to look that far after one headslap too many.

 

Right this moment it doesn’t really matter anyway, Tony paused mid-motion by the divider on one side of Ziva’s desk, Gibbs sitting at his desk telling this little girl a story full of memories. When Gibbs looks up to meet Tony’s eyes, not looking at all surprised to find Tony lurking there, there’s a peace in his eyes Tony has rarely seen and makes him smile for the rest of the day.


End file.
